


i'll write our names out in the stars; or, the ten thousand deaths of the time lords

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Epistolary, Murder, Other, Thoschei, but still, companions really aren't mentioned so don't come here for rose, decomposition, fancy words, i know all i write is rose, inspired by this is how you lose the time war PLEASE go read it, just like an fyi, lots of commas, minor blood description, outside canon time please don't try to fit this into canon, they do both die several times but it's only referred to, they do have sex but it's not on-screen, they're both pre-new who at the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: mostly exchanged letters between the master and the doctor, across time and space.if you can't tell, it starts off with the master and goes back and forth.do not expect a consistent update schedule; do not try to fit this into any established canon timeline
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 43





	1. Exchanged

My dearest,

You’ve found the letter. I’m long gone by now — have fun picking apart the discarded scrap metal of my disassembled scheming. I’ll tell you now that you’ll find nothing, dearest, although I know you’ll still look.

I can see you now, in my mind’s eye, bent over, dressed ridiculously. How many hours will you spend searching before you return to this, my simply & easy words on a page?

Perhaps you’ll toss this away, dearest, let it float forever, partially read, in the depths of space — but I doubt you will. I know you better than you can imagine. Do you remember? Opening windows and stealing blankets? We were pulling each other’s metaphorical pigtails, you know, though it pains you now to admit it.

You’ll be whispering these words aloud to yourself in a half-broken space shuttle, the lights flickering on and off — is it ominous? I’d hoped, I’d _tried_ so hard to make it ominous, dearest, you’ll have to tell me if I did well. The next time we meet. I’d hoped you’d be frightened, at least minimally.

I can hear a ship calling in the distance. I know you’ll be looking for some parting words that will explain me, who I am now, what I want. 

I love disappointing you. You’re beautiful when you’re disappointed. 

Write me back. Or take me to dinner.

Your dearest enemy — until next time.

*** 

To you, I guess.

How dare you call me yours and dearest and ask for dinner? You lost that when you tried to kill me. You lost that when you held a blade to the universe’s throat and bargained its life away. You lost that when you made choice after choice that led to a stranger whose face only barely registers. You lost that when you went renegade, and when you left.

And I am, as I know you’ll say to yourself now, because I know you just as well as you know me, don’t pretend otherwise, just as renegade.

Well. You’ve caught me there.

I won’t dare call you dear, though — I haven’t quite figured out what to call you, and if you expect your _name_ , then you’ll be severely disappointed. It’s a ridiculous name. (Here I am, disappointing you. How the tables have turned.)

(I won’t write it here, even if just to mock.)

(It feels strangely personal.)

You did ask me to take you out. I don’t trust you enough to sit across from you at a restaurant with all those knives and candle flames. Yes, I said it — you want me to be truthful, I know — I don’t trust you.

So, darling — do you like _darling_? You do, don’t you. Until I find something better, it will have to placehold. 

So, darling. That was where I was? Darling, I won’t take you to dinner — not now, that is — but I did buy you a meal here, and I can tell you the food is very nice. Do you have anyone to take to dinner? (No. Almost certainly not.) I secured a reservation for two with wine pairings. Don’t think I spent great expense on your behalf; I got it free after saving the chef’s life.

I would never deign to come across as needy, overbearing (not like _somebody_ I know — asking me out the first letter!), so I’ll end this here.

Absolutely not your dearest. x

***

My _dearest_ ,

I was beginning to think you’d never write back.

First things first: the code to turn off the poisonous gas is your birthday, of course. If you still remember it. (Not that the poison will hurt _you_ , but I know you like to think of yourself as the hero, and I your villainous foil). Be certain to type quickly; else its self-destruct protocol will be triggered and even we can’t survive a thing like that. Be careful with this body; I like it. 

Now for the important things. Dinner was very nice, but I would have liked a companion with whom to enjoy it. You were correct in your rather impolite assumption about my love life; it’s hard to compare with my previous romantic experiences. (Yes, that was a compliment. I give few, so gather them close to your hearts, to whisper to yourself on cold & lonely nights, of which I should expect you have many.) (And here we are back at insults — I did tell you to keep mine close, like water in a desert.) (How much of that water will be simply mirage, I wonder?) 

Yes. The dinner was very good & very lonely. Next time, I insist you join me. You pointed out in your last letter that I come across overbearing, yet I’d like to refute that with the fact that it’s been quite a few years that we’ve known each other, and by now, if asking for a small meal is overbearing — let me be overbearing.

As for your trust issues — well. There isn’t much I can say to solve that, is there? But I’m rather too fond of your company to murder you over dinner. There are so many other, better places to do that, my dearest. 

It’s been some time since we’ve spoken face-to-face, hasn’t it, my dearest? Let’s remedy that — 18th century New York? 21st century Turkey? You like Skairian food, too, don’t you? We could go _there_ , the atmosphere’s always very pleasant. We could make a day of it — get ourselves a hotel room. You’d like that, I think. 

I’ll change the subject, on your behalf. So you don’t embarrass yourself in front of your companions.

Polite things to say in a letter to your enemy… they really don’t write books on these sorts of things, do they. (Now I’ve said it, you’ll find one with which to hit me over the head.) (And lacking that, perhaps write one yourself). 

How’s the weather, dearest? 

Awful, I hope. Unfortunately, I have not yet figured out how to create a portable stormcloud to follow you around, so until then, I can but hope. I hope thunder is rumbling in the distance, so loud it stirs you to your very bones; I hope the sky is so saturated with clouds you can barely see; I hope you are shivering and dripping wet from a surprise deluge.

It’s funny, (it isn’t) that it feels like with every word I write, I feel like I’m getting one dash and circle to the end of whatever this is. I think, someday, I’ll miss this, dearest, once you’re gone and dead and finished. Don’t get me wrong; I’ll be the one to hold the knife to your throat and press the blade to your skin.

But I’ll miss you, afterwards.

Well, I ramble on, per usual, and I’m nearly certain you’re going to fill your next letter with complaints about it. 

I miss you. Already.

Yours.

***

Hello.

I did answer. I will answer. See?

I’m not the one who will tire of this, eventually. I’m the one who’ll be found on a frosty, forbidding planet someday, poison pulsing through my veins as I take my final breaths. You said you’d use a knife, though; perhaps I’ll have a gaping wound in my chest where you reached in and stole both my hearts, dripping and still warm. 

You said you would miss me, but it will be a release, a relief to have all of this over for the final time. I shall die in your arms, someday. I demand it. Nobody should kill me but you, the final stroke in our chess game spanning all our years. 

I don’t expect anything less. 

You may point out there is another way for this to end: for me to murder you, somehow. But you were right in your assessment of me: I do love being the good guy. 

I beg you to cease requesting my presence. 

I’m far too close to saying yes.

This letter will have to be short. Perhaps writing with leftover ink was a bad idea. It runs dry. 

Spot. Circle. Line. And we rush forward to the end.

Circle. Circle. Line. Dot. And we try to break each other’s orbits, getting increasingly more chaotic in the empty space. 

Line. Circle. Dash. We’ll run into each other, eventually, falling apart into a million dusty pieces and swirling around each other.

Until then, 

Doctor.


	2. Death

I think you’ve died.

That isn’t any way to begin a letter. I misstep; I’m not close enough to you, socially, to point out your regeneration. But you loved me, once. 

I loved you, once.

Once is such a tiny word. Take it out and fix the tense — what is tense, really, in Gallifreyan — and the sentence is so different. I should not make a comment on how it would change the accuracy of my claim. 

Once, once, once.

I hope you’re liking your new body. I’d like to see it. I’m sorry we didn’t get to see each other much last time around; this time, maybe we could schedule something. 

Is it confessions time? Do you remember when we would lie awake, wondering if the other was asleep, and we would whisper our secrets as midnight inched on by? I still remember your worries about passing this class or another, or your fears about the nightmares that plagued your sleep. 

I wish you were here. I wish you were with me, in this freezing outpost. I would hold you close, for the warmth of it, and kiss you until you were dizzy and you couldn’t form your words right. 

I’m delirious from the temperature here; I would never write these words, in my right mind. By the time you find these, I’ll be long gone, hopefully to somewhere with a fireplace and a generous supply of hot chocolate. 

And yet. I want to snog you _senseless_.

It warms me to imagine you reading these words and going all hot and sweaty. What will your companions think, I wonder? And your TARDIS? (She knows, I think. She likes me, you know, although she won’t tell you.) 

It’s so quiet here, the only sounds the beeping of scientific instruments and occasionally scientists speaking in hushed tones. You’re always so _loud_. (Don’t take it like that. I know how you read that, and it’s not what I meant.)

I meant that you’re always so full of _life_. You walk into a room, all vanilla-scent and blinding colors and astronmically huge grin, and you just fill it up. You’re loud. You won’t stop talking about things like linguistics (which is not, I admit, the worst thing to listen to) and trees and biology and… and all the things you’ve read a million books on and will now lecture nonstop about.

It would fill up the room, your lectures. It would fill up the station. It would fill up this whole godforsaken frozen continent. Your presence would fill the _world_ , if you let it. It always has. 

If I don’t end this letter here…

If I don’t end this letter here, I’ll say things like _if you came here I would take you and never let you go because I need you, always, and it’s so bad here, it’s so awful without you._ And things like _without you I feel like a misplaced puzzle piece that’s fallen under the rug, that’ll never see the rest of itself again, because without you I’m so desperately incomplete._

So you can see why I feel I should sign off, now. Before further embarassing myself.

Before I say things like _I need to see you so soon or I’ll surely die. Please, please, please._

Oh, darling, dearest, love. 

Yours, always.

***

Hi. Yet again. 

You are correct. I have died.

That will be all about that subject. 

Don’t talk about us, back then. Love’s a loaded word, and how much can two confused and lonely little kids really love each other? It’s a complicated thing, full of confusion and anger and pretending and tears. 

I think you’re right when you said you were delirious from the cold. As much as I dislike you, I hope you’ve found yourself a warmer cave to huddle up in. Perhaps with a fire. A warm drink. A blanket.

These aren’t your thoughts that you’re writing. You would never think those things. You would never tell me those things, not even in the projected privacy of our exchanged letters. You would have never said those things in those nights you lay pressed up against my back, breathing on my bare skin, back when we were younger and we slept in a bed together and kissed in the night. 

Oh. I sound like I miss those days, don’t I.

Sorry to be so misleading. 

I do not. As horrible as our relationship is now, with guns leveled at each other’s foreheads, I prefer it to all the sappy lies and stolen kisses and sweet pleasures in the Academy closets. 

All right.

Maybe the teenaged closet sex was preferable. But only by a few degrees. 

Anyway, please stop telling me you want to make out with me. Please stop telling me you want to sleep with me. Please stop telling me you want to make eyes at me across a dinner table. You’re making me flush in front of my companions, and it’s entirely embarassing. 

To be extraordinarily, scaldingly honest, I think it’s a bit forward of you to write in your letter to me, which could really be read by any Gallifreyan wandering around in a small building on the corner of a freezing, forbidding ice planet, how much you want to kiss me. Now, whether that is a reciprocated desire, I’m not at liberty to discuss — but still, it’s very inappropriate. 

This is not to say that we should discontinue our correspondence. I’ve begun to look forward, in some strange, twisted manner, to your letters, as outwardly lustful as they are. 

I’m going to sign off. 

(But if you really, really want to meet up, perhaps our old dinner place?)

(Get that hotel room.)

You’re embarassing yourself with all the longing. See you soon.

Doctor.

***

Good morning.

Last night.

_Last night._ I didn’t know you were still this good. (I’m not surprised, not in the least. Pleasantly taken aback? All right. But surprised? Hah.) 

I won’t linger on it —

(You wonderful, beautiful, _bastard_!)

— because I’m sure you wish to continue pretending to hate me —

(You glorious, magnificent, idiot!)

— but it was very nice. Very nice indeed. I found myself thinking _Why don’t we do this more often?_ before realizing it was you, all you.

It always is about you, isn’t it. I can’t do anything that isn’t about you, somehow. I fear that we’ve become irreversibly entwined, without noticing anything out of the ordinary as Clotho’s golden thread wound our ankles together in a knotted mess.

I’ve been waiting ages to write that line. I had to read all your favorite Greek myths and sort out which Fate was which. And all because of that little mention of Orpheus and Eurydice, once. 

(I do wonder how we would do in that situation. There’s no way you would look back over to see my face, no matter how dire the circumstances. I, however, cannot depend on myself one way or the other; I could imagine myself giving into doubt and glancing back at that familiar form as you dissolved into the Underworld, but I’d like to think I have a bit more self-control than that.)

I hope that as you read this note, lying in bed, you think of me fondly. You think of me sweetly, and you smile a bit, instead of your usual furrowed brows and shadowy frown. Lighten up, a little. 

Your love. 

*** 

Ah, here we are again.

That’s no way to address anyone, let alone whoever you think you are to me, but I don’t mind too much. I’m sure you won’t mind too much, either. 

Rather presumptous of you to sign off with “your love,” isn’t it? You and your pretty little assumptions, your perfect view of us, your polished snowglobe of our twisted relationship. Did you drink two bottles of ginger champagne before writing that little note of yours? 

No, no, credit where credit is due: our little night together was extraordinarily enjoyable. Thank you. (Does one thank an old friend for rather spectacular sex? I looked through several books on etiquette and, surprisingly enough, none of them told me quite how to handle the situation. So thank you, and those two words shall be enough.)

You were wrong about Orpheus and Eurydice. Not about the looking-back, not about the Fates, but about Orpheus and Eurydice; it isn’t my favorite story. I hate that story. Every time I hear it, every time I read it, no matter whose version it is, Orpheus is always just a few steps away and — 

Well. You know how it goes.

I’ve always hated those kinds of stories. The ones where just a moment makes all the difference in the world.

Isn’t that true to life, though? I know you’re thinking, and YOU preach so much about how wonderful it is that humans can just change!! And yes, how wonderful it is, but how horribly tantalizing to just have what you want dangled right in front of you and snatched away at the very last moment.

Maybe we shouldn’t do this more often. It messes with my head for ages. I’ve just put the kettle on for some tea and yelled for you to get it off the stove when it whistled.

Send me something interesting, along with your words, next time. I find myself missing the back-and-forth sparring of our usual relationship. (See, now that I’ve said that, your next letter will go “hallo Doctor hope you’re having an excellent day this little rock will destroy the world,” and I’ll have to say no please Do Not). 

Doctor

***

Hallo Doctor,

Hope you’re having an excellent day. This little rock will destroy the world.

Kidding! Ha. It’s simply a rock. You expected that, didn’t you? Ah, I can indulge you every once in a while. I cannot tell you what the package attached contains, as it ruins the surprise — _Doctor, I know you’re going to rip it open right now please let me have this one mystery for the moment_ — but I do think you will enjoy it.

Doctor. No. Put the package away, and read the lovely letter from your lovely friend.

I’ve been running a division of a paper company for about three years now, and I think you’d enjoy the notes I’ve put together on some of my coworkers.

Jason (I omit his last name, as well as the rest of the workers here, to protect our general privacy. Which is to say, I would like another few years here establishing myself before you come along and say stop trying to take over the world), is an overly nice boy who, I believe, is quite besotted with me. I’ve found it quite works to my advantage. I always wonder if you’d be jealous, or think “that poor boy.”

Ella does her work under the table half the time. She only wears blue, and her hair is always done up so tight that I think she must not have a scalp. Once, she unplugged the projector during a corporate meeting, and then unplugged it _again_ after the problem was solved. Ella might be my favorite.

I have seen Jessie smile five times, once when she was watching the bit of a soap opera where somebody died. (Of course, that is my favorite parts of soap operas; or would be, if I watched those types of things.) So far as I know, her hobbies include watching videos of foxes decomposing and putting dead rats in people’s desks. This is only disturbing because those are all _my_ hobbies, and I get upset when somebody tries to steal my things. Also, my higher-ups have started to complain. How do you deal with me when I’m like that?

George plays pop music ocer the speakers at five in the morning, keeps trying to make me eat more cucumber, and has cheesy stickers on his waterbottle like _hang on tight!_ and then there’s a picture of some bug, or whatever. I hate him.

You better send me something, too. Days do blur into each other, here.

Somebody’s beloved, if not yours. 

_Attached to this letter is a small pebble and a box containing assorted chocolates. A note assures the consumer of the chocolates that half of them will cause illusions, and the other half are simply truffles with varied fillings._


	3. gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens in this chapter and I'm sorry :((( I PROMISE there's a lot more in ch 4, just be patient.
> 
> <3

Ha.

Very funny. I found a nice, deep ocean to toss your rock in, just in case. I’m sure you understand.

I did NOT, and I repeat NOT, open your package before finishing the letter. I have some semblance of civility, thank you very much. (I did peek inside, but only to check to make sure it wasn’t some sort of exploding device, because you have a horrible habit of trying to kill me).

I’ve sent you a small gift as well. I also found a nice set of postcards in the back, but my letters tend to run over the traditional postcard length, so I neglected to send them. I ended up writing the first part of a story I wished to tell you on one of them, but I ran out of space and then forgot the story, so now I have a postcard that reads only

_The other day I saw a chicken walk into a convience store._

And I have no idea what happened to the poor chicken. 

Your coworkers sound delightfully odd! I would love to meet them all. (I presume you did not include the full list, and I expect further details with further letters.) I would not be jealous of Jason whatsoever; do not pride yourself on thinking I would.

Whenever you’re like that, I simply give you some hot chocolate and send you off to bed. I’m afraid you can’t quite do that with Jessie. Perhaps try to transfer her to another department. I’ve heard terrible things about Customer Service.

I’ve been quite respectful this whole letter, I realize, as I’m reading it over. I haven’t made a jab at you the once. I _did_ say our little night together really did do a number on me, and I suppose I haven’t quite recovered. Send possible cures. 

Is there any other concievable way to sign off your letters? You could just do it with your name, like any other person does. Any of your names, really; I know you like to come up with them in lieu of proper entertainment. 

Watch how I do it:

Doctor.

_Attached to this letter is a postcard, with the words “The other day I saw a chicken walk into a convience store” on the back and a picture of the Statue of Liberty on the front. There is also a book of crossword puzzles and an old copy of the play_ Macbeth, _except the cover has been switched with the cover of_ Twelfth Night. 

***

You do think you’re clever, don’t you.

I should not have showered you with compliments when we were younger; it’s inflated your ego rather effectively. As for your hangover cure, I do suggest more of the same. I can buy you dinner, beforehand. I know you like a good pampering before you’re entirely, gorgeously mine.

I have not transferred Jessie; instead, I have fired her. She really was getting on my nerves.

You were correct in my assumption that my previous descriptions were not my entire office. There is, for instance, our receptionist Louisa, who wears four layers of lipstick and has an empty fishbowl on her desk. I believe she thinks she can get herself a raise by trying to bed me. She has, so far, been entirely unsuccessful.

(In getting the raise and bedding me. I do not plan on sleeping with my receptionist. If you were, at all, worried.)

I’m sure in including your chicken convienence store story, you expected me to finish it myself. Have you ever heard the joke of the cow walking into the butcher’s and coming out between two pieces of bread? I’m afraid that would be the direction my story tended to.

Thank you for the postcard. I shall hang it up above my desk and say it’s from my husband, and that will dissaude Louisa quite nicely. 

You did not trick me with your little Scottish play game. I’m afraid you’ll have to pick something I haven’t already read yet, because Duke Orsino does not read very much like any of the three witches.

Do you remember how that play opens? Not the tragedy. “If music be the food of love/play on.” I’ve always liked Orsino, despite his bumbling, longing, overdramatic ways. (Oh, before you write in your response “reminds me of somebody I know,” I’m saying it now. Your jest is no longer original.) 

(And I still do not believe you didn’t open the package first. I know you all too well, my dear.) 

Yours, yours, yours, yours. 

***

I do think I’m clever. I think I’m rather too clever for my own good, sometimes.

You forgot to send anything with your last letter. I wondered if I should reciprocate in kind, and then I thought about sending you some items that you would most certainly appreciate and I would most certainly regret, later, and then I went to put my head in a nice, cold bucket of water.

Where was I?

My package. I did end up attaching a package. No Shakespearean tricks, this time. (Also, Duke Orsino really does remind me of somebody I know. I don’t CARE if you said it already, you set yourself up for it and now you shall PAY).

I am not going to fall for your little seductions, this time around. If I want to sleep with you, it will be on my terms, not because of your horrible flirting. 

I care not which of your coworkers you give a raise, and I care not through what means they have gotten themself said raise. You need to have yourself a good time, sometimes. Really. 

I’m glad you liked my postcard. I don’t quite know how to feel about your intentions with it — I suppose I deserve whatever anger you throw at me for my complaints. I know. I know.

It’s funny. I sat down with a cup of tea (I got the water off the stove myself, this time) and I was thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and I’m still not sure what to do with any of this. I don’t know what to write, half the time, I’m just spewing random words onto the page and expecting you to deal with the fallout. When I’m around you, I can hardly think of any words to say (and not like that, not in the fun romantic speechless child kind of way, but in a horrible mess and tangle of emotions and —)

I don’t know where I was going with that; I’ll leave you to make up the rest yourself. Deal with the fallout, and all. ‘Tween two pieces of bread.

Found a wonderful recipe for orange cake the other day. I’ve never been much of a baker, and I don’t know how to convert measurements into my Gallifreyan measuring cups. Perhaps you could give me a hand. You’ve always been better at all the practical stuff, all the cooking and sewing and repairs, and I’ve always been distracted with the flashy skills, the things that made me look cooler and prettier. 

Am I cool and pretty now? It’s funny, because some years ago you would’ve said _yes_ , no matter what, and now I think you will say _no_ , no matter what. 

The rest of that Orsino line, by the way, reads “give me excess of it, that, surfeiting/The appetite will sicken, and so die.” So: if music be the language of lovers, speak it with me more so I may tire of it. 

Speak it with me more, darling. 

Doctor.

_Attached to this letter is a small charcoal drawing of twin moons, marked with the artist’s name in Gallifreyan on the back. In addition, there is a ripped-out page from a cookbook that reads ORANGE AND LEMON CAKE, with handwritten notes that say things like “apparently, five of these is too much milk.”_

***

Dearest,

I am sorry for my mistake; I’d meant to send along an old bottle of champagne that I’d hoped would erupt in a spray of gold in your face. I drank it, by the way, last night, and got very solidly tipsy. It was nice champagne. 

Speaking of people who got a raise, _I_ got a raise, and I slept with absolutely nobody. Which, now that I read my words over again, seems a bit depressing. I’ll give you a little tour of my office while you’re here, and we can get up to whatever naughty things you want to get up to in my office, or my new flat, or the supply closet, or whatever or wherever you want.

You asked for more descriptions of my coworkers, and I gladly deliver. (Did you ask that last letter, or the one before? They all blur together, eventually; the days here are all the same and I find myself allowing only a few sentences at a time, allowing your words to sink into my mind with a deliciously slow pace.) (Not because I look forward to your words, or anything. They simply provide a much-needed escape from the monotony of the workplace).

Samuel is a pleasant man who does our delivery. He speaks very little, which I appreciate, and hands over your letters with a wink. How did you get our office address? I’ve meant to ask you for a while, now, but I kept getting distracted. 

There is a new intern in our office named Samantha, which begins to get rather confusing on delivery days. I don’t like her much. She talks a lot, and she seems determined to befriend me. At least with Louisa, I understand her intentions (money, and I’ve been told I’m not bad in bed) (by you); with Samantha, I don’t see the purpose in being friendly all the time. She even got me my favorite iced coffee the other day, without me asking, and — _get this_ — she didn’t want anything in return. Ridiculous. There must be a hidden objective somewhere in her actions; I must be careful around her in the future. 

As for your fallout. I don’t mind dealing with it, when it comes to the mess of your words, although there is a small puzzle around your meaning occasionally. And about that recipe: I looked through it, and baked it myself, and made a few tweaks. The conversion into Gallifreyan is simple when you’ve got an eye for it. It’s a nice little cake, best enjoyed with cold vanilla ice cream, I think. Or warmed-up raspberry sauce?

Send pictures of the results, will you?

I will speak with you, dearest, and I beg you to play the food of love and all, but I am becoming more and more afeared by the day that it has not the desired effect. 

But speak. Speak, and I will listen; speak, and I will repeat your words to myself as the sun sets and I pack up my things to go back to the flat I share with three succulents; speak, and I will hear your voice from a younger larynx. Speak, dearest. Speak. 

Your _darling_.

Attached to this letter is the same recipe as before, with different measurements and new notes, as well as a similar charcoal sketch of a young blond boy standing on a cliff. There is also a champagne bottle label, with the words “do buy some for yourself and try it out” written in pen on the back.

***

The cake turned out well.

I put some homemade whipped cream on top, because we ran out of vanilla ice cream last week and I don’t like raspberries all that much. It tasted wonderful. Thank you.

If I send along some more recipes to you, would you mind adjusting them for me? I liked the thought of us eating the same food in different timelines, mine slightly burnt, yours, (I’m sure) perfect, as usual. 

I was going to say, “I’m ignoring your comment” but you know, I find myself wanting more and more every day to say yes. You ruin your mystery, by inviting me over; if we do anything, it will have to be at my place. 

Continue to send your little profiles of your coworkers; I find them very amusing. Samantha seems like a nice girl, and you might benefit from some actual friends of your own. Not everybody who wishes to get close to you has a hidden intention, darling; some people are just — cue Shock Gasp Awe — nice people, as hard as _that_ concept may be for somebody like you to understand. 

I hate to disappoint, but I must leave you with a short letter. Things, capital T, have come up, and I want to send it. All your questions and questionable statements left unanswered and unaddressed, for now.

Doctor. 

_Attached to this letter is a stapled-together cookbook made of index cards, and nothing more._


	4. in between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some Stuff is coming up (not in this chapter but future ones) and I once again beg you not to try to fit this into canon; this is not a Doctor and a Master but simply the Master and the Doctor. 
> 
> (yes, we're going past time war; yes, the regeneration distinction will become much clearer after that. i do apologize)
> 
> (also, just bc we have the time war doesn't mean previous regenerations were 7 or 8 or whatever bc this is not canon)
> 
> \----

I painted my office.

It’s a nice off-white, a colour I know you despise. I had to move all the furniture out for the painters, and the room smelled of chemicals for days. But it feels bigger, fresher, somehow. It’s funny how a new layer of paint can make everything different, for a moment. I lost your chicken postcard, when I was taking everything off the wall, and I still don’t know where it went. Perhaps I never will.

I don’t know why I decided to tell you that; it’s a monotonous detail, one that is making it increasingly clear that I’ve settled far too well into this alternate lifestyle. 

I want to leave, Doctor. I want to go so far from this place I’ll never have to think of it again; and find my nice safe harbour somewhere on the other side of the galaxy, far from this miserable chunk of rock you call Earth. Would you take me on, in your TARDIS, and let me lurk in the background for a year or two? You would hate that, though, wouldn’t you.

I spent hours trying to figure out what to say in this letter. There’s nothing new, nothing interesting, nothing you would look at and think ah yes I shall continue my correspondence with _this_ wonderfully interesting Time Lord. I’m afraid you may have to find a different wonderfully interesting Time Lord; I’ve lost all my charm. 

I keep looking at this paper. I’ve written so little.

I would beg you to leave me, if I thought I was yours at all. Oh, I know I sign off with all sorts of variations of practically throwing myself at your feet — and don’t think I don’t know how you scoff at it — but the truth is that I’m not sure if I belong to you at all, in any sense of the word. 

Never yours, perhaps.

***

I kept wondering whether your last few paragraphs were another ploy.

I know that’s rude of me, to assume everything you do is automatically another plot. You can’t blame me, after betraying me again and again. I wondered, and I put together the pieces, and I read your letter again and again. (It is short.) What could he want? I asked myself. Does he want me to stop writing to him? Is this some sort of threat? 

Nothing seemed at all implied, so I was left with the horrible and unfortunate truth: that you had simply felt alone and sad and unalluring. And I thought about that for a while, and I thought about what I would say to comfort you, if I would comfort you at all, and what I would send, and the answer is nothing. The answer is tell me where you are so I can hold you close and kiss you and promise you that everything is all right.

And now I think maybe it was a plot, after all, if not a concious one, to get me to lower my shields. Do not think this is how I really feel; do not think this is some sort of truer me or truer correspondence. All that hatred and loathing and hostility I feel towards you is still here, simply shoved aside and packed away for the moment.

This is not a reconciliation, and I doubt you predicted it would be. (I wonder if you even want something like that. You make up half of whatever this is, after all, and you draw it out just as I do). 

But send me something, or meet me somewhere, and I will fill your head with sweet nothings and paint the Gallifreyan for perfection across your bare shoulders. 

Yours, yours, I promise, yours.

***

_The next letter is simply a scrap of paper with an address, a date, and a year written in casual-use Gallifreyan._

***

How did you do it?

By “it,” I mean the letter you left on the side table after our previous night together. You were so succint, and complimentary, and I want my words to sprawl off the page and ink themselves permanently on the wood I write on, so you can look at it and remember me and smile. 

I cannot perform your correspondence magic, so I will reflect upon our time spent together instead. 

I never thought — and now, this is how I know you will never show my letters to anybody else, because you will never want this told to anybody — I never thought I’d see you so happy to see me. You were dressed in that boring grey suit (which I must say is not flattering on you) and you were frowning, and you were all slumped over, and then you saw me and lit up. 

I’ve never been kissed with such force. It was glorious, I will admit; you still taste like blood, and I don’t know why. I could have kissed you forever, if you weren’t so insistent to get everybody out of your office _right that second_ so you could rail me on your desk.

That was pleasant too. (As was when you did quite the same to me on your chair, and in the closet, and when we went back to your apartment on your bed, and on your couch, and now that I’m thinking about it we may have done that far too much for one day.)

And the way you curled up to me and whispered to me how much you needed me to tell you your worth, your value. You are so incredible. I just wish you would use that for something other than mass destruction.

You slept in. (Perhaps I’d exhausted you?) I found the eggs in your kitchen and made you breakfast; it’s sitting next to this note now. I’m looking at your sleeping form as I pen my letter. Are you saying _Doctor, Doctor_ in your sleep, or is that simply my overactive imagination? I like to think you’re dreaming of me. 

Yours. 

***

Hello.

I would have to reciprocate your compliments. I had a fabulous time with you. The eggs were very nice. When did you learn to make eggs? It reminded me of the recipes you sent me before.

The cookbook you sent me previously was quite long, and I’m still making my way through it. A few recipes proved boring or just not very good, and I’ve taken those out. Louisa reccommended I press some flowers in it, which is very much _not_ my sort of thing, but I couldn’t quite argue. You’ll find some forget-me-nots, and violets, I believe, and I added some vanilla flowers and basil leaves for practical cooking reasons. 

I’m afraid my time at that office has come to a close. The end of a chapter, really. I think I will miss it more than I expected. But you had seen it, and my plans were all but foiled, and it was time to move on anyway. I will settle myself somewhere else, somewhere with a stove, so I can bake whatever you’d like. 

That place contained no good memories for me, anyway, except for when I (as you so poetically put it) railed you against every possible surface. Rassilon’s tits, that was a day excellently spent. 

(I apologize for the expletive. It seems I’ve forgotten myself.)

(Not my audience. I’ve heard some of the things that can come out of that mouth.)

I suppose now is much too soon for me to invite you over again, so I will not. Consider that sentence my roundabout invitation. Although, depending on where I decide to stay, we could find some very nice restaurants? 

I just stood up — you can’t tell, because everything bleeds into each other in a letter, and there is no way to tell the passage of time within — and got myself some coffee, and I’ve returned now. I was thinking. I’m almost certain you’ve grown tired of being so kind with me, so commendatory, so loving. I know you’d rather return to shooting me vicious insults, or talking about how much you detest me, or something of the sort; so I give you permission to continue to hate me. 

Dearest, dearest, dearest. Do you remember the first time I called you that? It was whispered in the sunlight in our childhood, as we sat beneath the merciful shade of the tree I once studied under, and we told each other shimmering and incomplete lies. I used to kiss you like you were all that mattered, like you were the most beautiful planet in the universe and I was your humble satellite. 

I think there were many people who would have loved to be your moon back then. I know there are still people who worship you as if you can do no wrong. You have such a magnetic personality, dearest, I cannot blame them.

All in all, I can’t say that I mind when you attract wanderers like moths to a flame. As long as you remember that I was first, and I will be last, in this and many things to come. I was the one who said _I love you_ in the dark and the one who screamed at the sky in my hatred for you, a hatred that has burned and bubbled and imprinted itself in my very bones, so I cannot remember anymore what it is to love you without it. My feelings towards you are an old tangle of lust and love and resentment and the lingering scent of vanilla. 

I’d promised you could leave all this behind, and then I went and got sappy on you. I’m sorry. 

Not yours, never yours, hate me.

***

I suppose I should do my best to hate you now.

I warned you before that it takes me a while to get back into the swing of things after I spend a night with you. 

About us, back then, under the tree with sugared words in our mouths and lazy kisses on our necks. I have a confession to make. Before all that, when I was a boy in love with his oblivious roommate, I may have engaged in certain activities. With, and I hate even admitting the words to you, but that certain person who you were so loud in your hatred of.

Yes.

I kissed Vansell on the roof of science building three. 

I’m sorry! I know what you must be thinking, and I had my reasons, and it meant nothing, and I thought of you the entire time. I wouldn’t think of you anymore, of course, because I don’t love you the same — can we stop talking about love?

Anyway, I hate you. I hate you.

It sounds so much like three other words, with a small change of letters. (And I said we would stop!) 

I. 

(…remember, all of it, the way you used to talk to me, the way you would say my name when you thought I wasn’t listening, and I remember when you would write my name on your notebooks and in ink on your hands, because we thought we were then and now and forever).

Hate.

(…the fact that what I did hurts us so much, and it hurts any dreams we could have had, and on the good days I think about how it could have been if I hadn’t done anything and on the bad days I just hate myself, and I hate that I think you love me.)

You.

(…are so beautiful, so good, even when you’re being horrible and murderous, and I hate that I find you gorgeous when you’re threatening me with the lives of innocents that don’t deserve it, and you’re incredible, incredible, incredible.) 

Doctor

***

Dearest. 

You kissed Vansell! You kissed Vansell.

I will never get over this. You kissed Vansell. That’s hilarious. Revolting. Was he any good at kissing? Did he try to push you off the roof afterwards? Did you push him off the roof afterwards? (You should have.)

Vansell! Why? Why would any sane person (as if you were sane, now or ever) choose to put their mouth on Vansell’s mouth? Rassilon and Omega, that’s horrifying to think about it. And it’s me, certified insane horrible person. 

I’m going to go wash my mouth out. I want to throw up just from thinking about kissing Vansell.

I’ve returned. 

Vansell? Vansell! 

This is _rich_. I’m going to make fun of you for this later. Vansell.

And for the record, I hate you just as much. And I’m not just _saying_ that this time; I’ve settled somewhere off-Earth, now, and I was standing at the window and I was just hit by the most utter anger at you, and I thought about tearing out your throat and scratching out your guts, my fingernails bloody. I would kiss you after you died, close your eyes and leave red fingerprints on your face, and I would bury you in the ice of a faraway moon, so visitors would see your mangled body as they walked across the surface.

You must be thinking, how _violent_! And it is. There are other, more peaceful ways I’ve thought about killing you, regenerations aside. Pour poison in your wine, and lay you in bed, and read to you until your hearts ceased their endless drumming. (The drums! The drums.) I would kiss you then, too, as your breath faded and you no longer frowned in my mouth. And I would dress you in silk before gently placing you in the earth.

Or I would slide a dagger across your throat as you gasped, and the last words you would hear would be my voice, low and painful. I would put a crown on your lolling head, kneel at your feet before a corpse, kiss your stiffening fingers. I would set fire to your body and let you burn with the rest of the world, watching the fire consume anything and everything I’ve ever loved. 

And with that, I bid you adieu.


	5. An Era May Be Ending

You make it very hard to like you, sometimes.

With all your pretended civility, you are truly a being of savagery. I should rather not like to be brutally murdered, thank you very much, despite the innate poetry and romance in your words. You make an eternity trapped in a wall of ice sound like a peaceful perpetuity, at the very least. 

I will admit, I’ve thought about dying with you. I said it before, that I expect you to kill me that final time, with the grace and gentleness I know you are still capable of. I thought you might strangle me with a silk thread and laugh as the world faded to black, or hold my head under the water as we drifted in a canoe on an undisturbed pond.

Or something.

I never imagined my death to be so worshipful, so regretful, so carefully holy as the deaths you’ve casually laid at my feet. I should like to die with an open mind and steady hearts, my chin held high, walking foward into a final afterlife with pride. 

Perhaps we will die together, blood painted on our lips as we kiss away the life that kept us so trapped. It would be a final relief, to know I would not be leaving you to destroy the universe on your own terms. Whatever happens to our empty bodies, whether they’re taken or buried or burnt, whether they’re chewed away by wildlife or left to rot in the cool air — we will have found some semblance of peace.

I penned this letter alone, as the sun set on a thousand planets and rose on another thousand. I had the distinct sense that an era is racing towards its fiery end, and I cannot help but wonder if it is for the better or not. I thought about how the universe is filled with death, and birth, and life and love and grief and rage and lust and desperation, and pride and fear and loneliness and togetherness, and we are so unbelievably lucky to hold the strands of time like we weave the worlds and lives of eternity.

I thought about you. I always think about you. And I thought about the way you wrote my deaths in your last letter. The ten thousand deaths of the Time Lords; it is our persisting curse, after all. 

Yes, I thought about you and eternity and death and all that, like the dramatic philosopher you so mock me for being. And I had that strange, persistent feeling, like something was breathing its final breaths, wrapping up its time for good, bidding us a final goodbye.

Find me on the other side.

No. Ignore me on the other side. Let us forget each other and pretend that we can live without each other. Let us find a new version of ourselves that does not require the blood and steel and pain in our everyday lives, let us find ourselves a life where we do not waste away for the touch of fire and the snap of teeth, let us settle into our different lives and happinesses and normalities.

Doctor

***

My dearest, dearest Doctor,

I should have known you’d be mad at me. It’s alright; I forgive you. 

I bought new curtains for my new room. (Yes. New room. I won’t tell you more; use your pretty little detective skills). I looked through all the colors you’d love and then walked to the other side of the store and found some in a nice cream color. And I have a desk — I am writing on my desk, now, with a pen and ink. My hand keeps getting sore.

(What did you say? Spot, circle, line, and we rush forward to the end? Well, this ink is certainly quite spotty. Have you ever written with a quill? Why didn’t those idiotic humans with their squishy brains figure out something better sooner? I’d rather write with a typewriter in the Latin alphabet I so despise than this feeble feather of a writing instrument.)

Where was I? My complains about this horrid turkey feather have distracted me from my point. There possibly was no point to begin with; that would not surprise me, as most of these letters are just our ramblings in the night, with no clear consistency or theme.

My room, though, my room. The bed _is_ big enough for two, if that interests you whatsoever. And I took my own blankets from my TARDIS for it, so I wouldn’t be sleeping on scratchy… whatever fabric they use. I didn’t look too closely at it, but I would hazard a guess it was some woollen material. 

Which reminds me. I had started sewing myself a new jacket for my new lodging. When in Rome, and all that. Would you mind sending me the red fabric I left in the back for lining? It’s labelled _for lining_ , and it shouldn’t be too tricky to find. 

Baking! I meant to tell you that I’d made some of those recipes! I’ll send them back when I have more to send along. The apple pies are nice with vanilla ice cream. 

Your death. We had been talking about your death. (Excuse me for the sudden subject change). (Although I’ve always said murder goes well with dessert). 

I missed some things in my descriptions of your murders. I missed _me_. I missed _after_. I missed the fact that I would bring red flowers to that ice planet and sprinkle the petals on the ground every year, the scarlet bloom mirroring the frozen blood suspended above your ruined guts. 

I missed the fact that I would sob over your stiffened body with wrenching, widowed sobs, until your still face would be soaked with the deluge of my tears. I would lie on your grave for a small eternity and miss your fingers entwined in mine, your warm breath on my skin, your lips on my mouth. 

I missed the fact that I would keep the ash from the house I burned you in around my neck, a gruesome reminder of all I’ve taken from myself. I would stare into my fireplace and imagine your flaking flesh, burning our letters one by one to take away any shred of forgiveness. (Forgiveness! As if I could ever forgive myself for removing your sweet breath from your lungs. I would have burned my own capability for that away with the fire of your cruel death). 

An era may indeed be ending, dearest.

But if it is, it is our own horrible, vicious fault. 

Yours.

***

_Mine._

What a funny way to label yourself, I think. Although you’ve always been one to label yourself strangely, in terms of names and things. I find a sort of joy in _mine_ , I will be honest, no matter how much I complained before. A sort of joy, I think, for the small power it gives me over you.

Small power. What a lie that is. You’re such a fool for me — I know, I know, we aren’t meant to be acknowledging that but I’ve found I don’t care for your precious boundries of courtesy — you’ve been falling at my feet since before we began this correspondence. What if I asked you to run away and live with me, forever and ever, living and dying eternities in each other’s arms, just like we planned so long ago?

I can see, in my mind’s eye, you clutching this paper to your breast and giving yourself a second to swoon — _Does he really mean it? Does he really want that?_ — before reading further for the inevitable disappointment. 

Here it is: No, I do not really want that. I have better ways to spend my time than kissing you lazily on every surface of the TARDIS and telling you I love you beneath a million different moons.

You’re waiting, with bated breath, for my apology. 

There will not be one.

I have gotten a bit fed up with your shenanigans this time around, I think. (Yes, I have died. I have regenerated. Congratulations to me). 

I have made an executive decision regarding my future death, which I believe is within my rights to do. I’ve decided your peaceful (or not so peaceful, as it is) deaths are not for me; in fact, I’d rather not die in your arms at all. No blood-soaked lips for us, anymore, I’m afraid. 

Don’t take it personally (or do, it’s not my business). I’d rather die by myself, I think, that final gasp of air lonely and alone. Find my body, or whatever, if you’d like. I’m sure you’ll outlive me still. You always do find some way to keep persisting, like some bloodthirsty cockroach.

I must say I won’t miss you in whatever final afterlife awaits me. Do they let us into the Matrix, anymore, after the final time? Us, specifically, with all their pointless crimes they say we committed. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Perhaps this is the regeneration sickness speaking, still lingering at the back of my mind. Perhaps this has all been the regeneration sickness, and I will hurriedly send you a note to disregard my previous letter.

I doubt it.

You don’t matter. I don’t matter. This is all a big universe of coincedences and choosing our favorite things to be important to us, and I’ve gotten more and more sure that we would be so much happier without that horrible Clotho’s golden string of Fate tangled around our fingertips and limbs and tongues messing everything up. 

Anyway. It’s not my fault, and I used to have to remind myself of this nightly, that you are the way you are. It’s not my fault your idea of fun involves removing the bones from innocent animals. It’s not my fault you have no idea what to do without me. It’s not my fault you let your regenerations waste away until you were altogether too desperate. 

It’s not my fault, and leave me alone. 

Doctor.

***

My newest and dearest Doctor,

Before I address your, frankly, extraordinarily rude letter, I have my own announcement to make. I have begun courting a rather pretty princess in my new timeline, who I will not name for my own privacy and security. If all goes well, I am certian we will be engaged to marry within the year. 

I believe I am owed some sort of congratulations, or even a good luck, although I doubt I will win either from you. What about jealousy? (Not to say that I would revel in your jealousy, or immediately cut off all ties with the people I live with currently to dash into your arms at the slightest word, but I would… appreciate the thought). 

(You have been jealous on my behalf before, no matter how vehemently you try to deny it. I must say, it does arouse me a bit to see you bothered about that; you want me yours, all yours, and to an extent that is rather sexy). 

I pay my respects, in this letter, to the person you once were. I pay my respects to the Doctor who held me tight and knew exactly what to say when I felt unattached and unimportant, the Doctor who kissed me softly and kindly in a million places I hated, the Doctor who most of all knew how to belong to all of us and none of us at once.

I’m sorry that Doctor is dead. I’m always sorry when you die, really. I’d thought we’d made some progress, the two of us, but I was foolish to believe that. We really are stuck in an unending cycle, trying to get away and trying to be together, unable to live apart and unable to be properly with each other, an unending Sisyphean task of a relationship.

I know, in the depths of my blackened and charred hearts, that I have only myself to blame. And yet, it is not my fault you chose the stars over the comfort of me and our shared home, left our life of little adventure but more happiness than either of us could have dreamt. (Perhaps that happiness was my own creation. You must not have valued it as much as I did; or you must not have felt it at all).

(And yet, despite the fact my common sense assures me against it — yes, I have an ample amount of common sense, however much you disbelieve the fact — I always end up blaming myself. Did I do something wrong? Did I not love you enough, or love you too much? Should I have told you how much I loved you more? Less? Or maybe it’s simply something horribly wrong with me, that you realized before I ever did, and you left for your own good). 

(I hate myself, sometimes, for letting you go).

Before I sign off — and I will sign off, I promise — I must admit to you something. When you spent the night, what feels like oh so long ago, at that little flat next to my office, and I watched you fall asleep nestled by my side…

I heard your sleeping lips whisper those glorious words into the charcoal night. Did you expect me to be asleep already? Or had you simply not noticed saying them at all?

Regardless, I will have the memory of you whispering _I love you, Master_ , till the day I finally leave this wretched plane of existence.

Quite truly, Yours.


	6. custard cremes & decisions

Hello,

I would not, in a million years, deign to be even slightly jealous of your possible sweetheart. I am not jealous. If I were jealous, I would not tell you I was jealous; but I’m not jealous, so it’s beside the point. Why would I be jealous? I know it would take only the slightest phrase and you would be running to be by my side, which I do not want, because I am not jealous.

I’m glad we cleared that up. You need a fling sometimes; it’s good for your health, I think. How long has it been since you’ve been with anybody? And I don’t count. You’re a regular praying mantis when it comes to me.

So no, I am not upset, I am not jealous, and you don’t have to worry about getting distracted from your courtship by me. It would be my last objective to ever prevent you from entering a new relationship.

I was looking through the library the other day and found more recipes I though I’d try out. I’ve had nothing to do lately, so I’ve baked some custard cremes with a bit of tricky engineering, which turned out not quite to my liking. I’ve sent them to you.

I most certainly did not set out to bake _for you_. Don’t get the wrong impression. I simply had extra. Extra cremes, is all. No particular favor for you.

In fact, when you eat my custard cremes that I did not make as a desperate attempt to win your attention and undying adoration, I hope you think specifically about how they are not for you. You’ve practically stolen them from me. You villain.

If you like them, I can send more.

Wait. I mean, I won’t send any. If you like them, I won’t send any. No, I meant, if you don’t like them, I’ll send more. No, that doesn’t make sense. If you don’t like them, I won’t send any more. Actually, I won’t send any more either way. Don’t tell me what you think, because it won’t make a difference in whether or not I send them.

I do not want your feedback.

I want…

I don’t know what I want. I don’t know much, I think; my regeneration has scrambled my brain. I know what I don’t want. (I don’t know what I want but I _do_ know what I don’t want. It’s like I’ve decided to only speak in riddles and half-truths now on, like a Wonderlander from _Alice In_ , when really I just don’t know how else to put it.)

I know I don’t want you. I used to want you more than anything in any world, in any time. There is, and I do not know why I’m informing you of this when it is something you already know intimately, a word in Gallifreyan for that. A word that says _no matter who you are, no matter who I am, everywhere, everywhen, despite any possible thing that could get in our way, I want you._

That is not a word that applies here.

Anyway. I do apologize, the slighest bit, for my harsh words in the past. But I’m sure you understand. We cannot go on like this.

Doctor

_Attached to this letter is a bundle of handmade custard cremes._

***

My love.

I’m kidding. After all that, I would never _dare_ to call you love. Shall I stop with the pet names, too? How silly of me, to think that with all our intricate shared histories, with all our past kisses and love confessions and complicated relationships, that you might actually respect me. How silly of me to think that you would remember any of it. Or rather, that you would care about it at all.

(And yet. And yet I spit in your face _I love you_ , because I cannot let go of you or who I think you might be. And yet I cannot imagine an existence wherein you are not there, front and center. And yet the moment you would call, I would rush to your side and ask you, Is there anything I can do for you? I would throw myself at your feet for the scraps of encouragement you never dare to offer anyway, and I hate myself for it).

There was almost certainly a point to all this when I began writing, but I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind, so you must deal with my angry writing without a purpose. And oh, am I angry. You dare send me letters, the one claim to our softness, our collective weakness, and use that to tear apart the ghost of a relationship we were building up?

I _hate_ you. I know I’ve said those words to you, but I mean them the most this time. I hate you, and I dream about your death more often nowadays. I’m favoring an option without honor, in which I shoot you through the hearts and toss you out into space. I don’t care what happens with your body.

Elie Wisel once said that the opposite of love is indifference. (In a very different context, of course, and I cannot really use his words to my own advantage. So instead of expanding upon that I will simply leave it there: the opposite of love is indifference.)

I’ve decided that I am well and over begging at your mercy. (I know, I know, I just confessed that I still long for your approval. Consider it the duality of man). I am no longer yours. I hope you liked when I was.

Oh, and how kind of you to send along your extra cremes! Of course, they aren’t really for me, are they? You made sure I knew that. As if I can’t see the obvious care put into them. Are you fishing for forgiveness? An apology? Both?

You should have simply told me. As it was, I threw your beloved cremes away. Here’s a little hint for the next time you try so valiantly to woo me: boys don’t like it when you tell them you’re giving them your rubbish. Surprising, I know.

As for my courtship, which you did not ask after. I cut some flowers for her, which she seemed to appreciate. That seemed a bit too cliché, and not very much if I did want to win her hand in marriage. So I prepared her dinner and picked out a necklace from the marketplace nearby. Not much, I know, but I presumed trying too hard would simply scare her off.

And how much would you like that? Not that it’s an option, not anymore, but I thought of you the entire time. I’m sure I will think of you when I kiss her, and I hate that I will.

Master

***

Hello,

I actually would not like you to make me dinner. I would also not like a gift of jewelry and flowers. Neither of those things sounds at all appealing to me. You may think I’m lying (again), but quite honestly, that sounds like an extremely uneventful date.

What are you going to do? Stare at each other across the table and _talk_? And you said _when_ you kissed her. Have you not yet kissed her? Is your idea of a perfect date giving somebody flowers and eating in close proximity and then going about your day? I see many flaws in your current plan. There are better ways to seduce somebody, if seduction really is your end goal.

 _I_ think, and this is not at all a see-through attempt to get you to ask me out, but I have very specific ideas of what a good date should be, and because you aren’t here to tell me not to tell you, I will, indeed, tell you.

A good date should be interesting. I should like to be kissed right off the bat (because I would like to know what to look forward to. Not at all because I adore kissing you and I will take any excuse to have your lips on mine.) I would like to walk in a park, or something, and perhaps a game of chess afterwards. And maybe I would like to be taken to a hotel room or your bedroom. Maybe.

(None of these are directions for courting me, of course. But if you decided to take them as such…)

(I would not complain.)

I don’t care if you’re done. I’m _glad_ that you’re done. Just dancing with glee around my TARDIS at the thought of you being done. And you know what? I’m done too. Done with you, entirely so, really, I promise.

I was not searching for either forgiveness (for I have not truly apologized) or an apology (what is there for you to apologize for that written words could take care of?), but instead simply sending you some baked goods. Which I _may_ have made for you. Because I liked the thought of you being happy because of something I made. That’s stupid. I see now that that’s stupid, especially considering what we’ve said.

What we’ve said. We cannot take it back, make it so neither of us could hear the vituperative comments we’ve exchanged. I wonder, if I had the option, would I make it so that I never heard your insults and I never said mine? Would that improve upon what we have, or erase the nuance of our history?

I suppose neither of us shall never really know. I don’t know if I want to know, anyway.

(But I know what I do want, now, and it looks horrifyingly and suspiciously like you. I shall not say please, Master, my Master please, because that goes against anything I’d ever stood for and have said even recently. I know you will fantasize about it, though, and I will not tell you not to think that at all.)

I’ll sign off before I say something unforgivable to my future self. This is me, signing off. I am signing off now.

The Doctor, definitely signing off.

***

Dearest (because I’ve decided not to get rid of the pet names after all),

I feel slightly embarrassed about this now, because it seems you’ve decided we’ve made up a bit (which I will address later), but I burned some of the recipes that you’d sent me. You seemed to be doing all right without them, after all! I mean, I had made copies of them, so really there’s nothing to worry about. But I wanted to tell you. I don’t know why.

Now, I’m glad I know how to win you over (not, of course, that I want to. I was not intending to court you at all), but I do want you to know how to seduce _me_ , if you ever get the urge.

I should like to be taken to a museum. Or a library. I should like you to tell me things I’d never have guessed at about the history around us (your linguistics facts have always gotten me worked up, I will admit). I should like to be looked at like I’m as beautiful as the art on the walls. I don’t need a kiss on a good date, although I would always appreciate one. I think, if you wanted to kiss me, I should like to blatantly disregard the institute’s rules and regulations. Somebody should end up pinned next to a painting in a good date, I think.

And I would like to be taken to dinner afterward, except we both ignore our food for the engaging coversations we both find ourselves usually swept up in. You’ll tell me you want to take me somewhere else (your bedroom in that broken-down little TARDIS of yours, or a hotel room, or a closet somewhere); I play hard to get. I know you like that. You pretend you don’t.

Perhaps I give in. Perhaps I do not, and I send you back without a companion to warm your bed. I know the latter option is, realistically, less likely. Less enjoyable for the both of us. In a perfect world, I would take you to _my_ TARDIS, _my_ bedroom, and lock the door, and nobody but us would be privy to what happened next. I’m sure you, with that brilliant mind of yours, can surely guess.

(I’d like you to imagine me clearing my throat here, as we change topics. Taking a drink, maybe. It’s up to you).

We’re over.

No, I phrased that incorrectly. We’re over, aren’t we?

I realized it yesterday, and paced for hours trying to figure it out: how would I convince you not to leave me? Would I give in to you and do whatever you wished, beg for you on my knees, give you flowers or — give you the universe? I would. I would steal the stars for you and hang them around your neck, if it meant you stayed.

But there’s no way to keep you, is there? I ask a question that I already know the answer to — rhetorical, they call it. You are not a bug to be cast in amber and kept around my wrist for safekeeping. You are something more complex and wild and free, and I love you, and goodbye.  
Write back, please. I don’t think I could bear it if you didn’t.

For my final time: yours.


	7. Rings

I have one request.

Well. That is a lie, if I ever wrote one. (Which I have, many times, as you well know. You’re probably thinking just now: what a liar, the Doctor is. It’s probably true.) (It’s in our blood, I think. No matter how hard I try to be my own person, that lying awful gene always comes back to bite me in the behind.)

(Although one cannot blame their upbringing for their actions. I know that well as anybody). 

Where was I? My request?

I think it would be better for the both of us if you up and forgot me. And no, I’m not just saying it so you don’t bother me anymore, although I cannot deny that factors into the thing; I merely believe that without me, you could go so much further.

Ah, and there I am, pretending it’s to benefit you. A liar, a liar, a liar.

If Mr. William Shakespeare was correct, after all, and all the men and women of this world and the next and so on, so forth are players of a grandiose stage, my most used stage direction, I think, would be: _The Doctor lies._

_Exit THE DOCTOR, lying._

Et cetera.

(Which is not a proper thing to say in a letter. Forgive me. I seem to be in a mood lately. You don’t mind, though, I’m sure; I’ve done far more compromising things in front of you).

( _With_ you). 

So forget me. It will be better for you, yes, but mostly I ask because I cannot have you weighing on my conscience all the livelong day, I cannot have thoughts of you crowding my mind constantly as I try to do other things. Just the other day, despite your last letter, I was going about my business and was suddenly overtaken by longing for you to clasp my hand, press your lips to my lips, utter glorious words like _it’s all going to be all right_ and _I missed you, Doctor_ and _I’m yours still, ever so yours._

None of that matters. I don’t know why I wrote it down. Something just… Something overtook me, I suppose.

( _The Doctor lies and lies and lies_ ).

I wonder, when you listed all your proper dates and strategies to court you well, if you thought that I would break. Did you think I would rush into the bridge of the TARDIS and appear at your side, eager and awaiting your love and devotion? Did you think I would scoop you up and carry you to the nearest, conveniently located museum, and kiss you next to the Van Goghs?

My, my, your mental gymnastics, to flirt with me one moment and break up with me the next. Whatever were you trying to get across there? “Court me, but not really”? “Take me on a date, but we aren’t dating”? 

Make up your mind, Master. Do you love me? Do you want me? 

Perhaps I am hoping that you will read this and break down in tears. Perhaps I want you to regret your own words, feel wracked with guilt, want to retract words you can never take back. I do not need you.

I have never needed you.

_Exit THE DOCTOR, lying and lying and lying._

Doctor

***

Dearest,

I’ve decided to continue to keep the pet names. Is that okay? (I don’t care, either way. I just thought I should ask, dearest darlingest Doctor.)

I looked through my sidetable in my room. Do you remember when we got married on Earth, in that church, with you gazing into my eyes as if I was the only person in the room? And you wore that awful salmon suit and kissed me until both of us were left gasping at the end?

Anyway, I still have both my rings. I haven’t worn them in a while, I admit, but they’re still there, those old things, just shimmering away next to my bed. Maybe I will give my new girlfriend the one with the sapphire on it when I propose to her. 

It would be too big for her, I think. She has the most slender little fingers.

(Do not, my dearest, begin to think I really like her. I know, it doesn’t matter — it’s not _supposed_ to matter — but she is a means to an end. I would say, and we are forever, but we are not. We are over. We are nothing). 

I didn’t bring it up (it, being give my ring to her, in this situation. And now I feel like this letter is algebra, where you substitute _betrayal_ for _x_ and solve for _y_ , the great unknown) because I was actually going to do it, you know. I think you do know. I just wanted to frustrate you, make you angry, drive you up the nearest wall.

I’ve always loved to annoy you. I think it’s one of my best skills. And you really are cute when you’re annoyed. (I know, we’re over, and all that, but I can still appreciate your little scronched up nose from a purely aesthetic viewpoint.) Sometimes I want to annoy you for the rest of our miserable little lives.

Isn’t that romantic.

And am _I_ overreacting? _My_ mental gymnastics. That’s rich, coming from you. Just a little while ago, you went from vile words to soft encouragement in a few paragraphs, and back to insults again. You wrote lines and lines and lines about how you hated me, and then woke up next to me and murmured compliments into my ear as the morning sun filtered through my curtains.

You have always been a perfect hypocrite. If you said, “lighting things on fire is reprehensible and nobody should ever light things on fire,” all I would expect next is for you to light something on fire. _The Doctor lies_? Try _The Doctor contradicts himself. And is preachy about it._

Over and over and over again. It gets rather dry, dearest. Try a new trick. Perhaps you could be a hypocritical bastard and _then_ lie, instead of the other way around? Or you could quit and start a restaurant.

(The latter, if you could not tell, was a weak attempt at making fun of your cooking. If you started a restaurant, everybody would walk out in protest of having to eat your food. If you started a restaurant, you would have to pay people to leave positive reviews. If you started a restaurant… well, I think you get the idea. Keep your day job of lying and being a hypocritical bastard, Doctor. It suits you better.)

I’m still not sure how to sign off these letters, if not with Yours. Master? Darling? 

Yours, Master, Darling.

***

Yours? Master? Darling?

I suppose we can keep those. I was thinking of protesting, then I thought better of it; I don’t know who you’d be to me without those darling words. Perhaps not _Master_. I doubt you’ll ever be rid of that one for too long.

Sign off… sign off with Sincerely, Master, or something. Although that sounds cold, and impersonal. Why is everything so hard with you?

(Why is everything so hard with _us_?)

(No, really. We could have had that quiet life. Would either of us be happy? I don’t think we could be, trapped in one place forever and forever. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow — and all that. But we would have been happier than we are now. Right? We must be. I wonder, sometimes, if there is another version of ourselves far away who wake up every morning in each other’s arms, and smile, and go about our lives in a wonderful mediocrity).

(I don’t think I could stand that. But maybe another version of me could).

(It was all my fault, anyway. All of this. It’s all my fault, in the end).

This is a leadup, eventually, to: your rings. You still have those old things? Why? Whatever do they do but sit there and look shiny? There is no use to old rings like that. I suppose you could sell them, if you like, but I don’t suppose they’d fetch much.

I think, whatever we are to each other now, I think it would be awfully rude to use your — _our_? — ring for somebody else. Thrift it. Or something. But please don’t give it away. Not because it feels like a replacement, because it doesn’t, because I don’t care. Because it’s rude, that’s all. Not because it hurts more than I care to admit.

You know, the other day I came across these beautiful flowers in a shop window. Do you still love daffodils, darling? I mean, Master? They were the brightest daffodils I’ve ever seen, with creamy white petals and a vibrant yellow middle bit. What are the middle bits called, again? I’ll go look it up.

Cup? Is cup right? I haven’t the faintest idea about botany, I will admit. Middle bit works fine, in my humble opinion. 

So there were these beautiful daffodils, sitting there like they were just waiting for you specifically, and I was halfway in the door when I remembered we were over. No flowers. Not even wrapped in a pitch-black ribbon with a knife hidden amongst them. Not even if they looked like they were longing for you with their entire little flower hearts. 

Just so you know what you’re missing out on. Flower hearts and flower kisses. 

In fact, we are so completely over that not _only_ will I neglect to bring you flowers, but I will cease writing to you altogether. No more correspondence. No more letters. No more pebbles that are sure to destroy the world.

…Hmm. That does seem a bit harsh, now that I’m looking it over again. Perhaps we shall simply not see each other for a long time.

Perhaps we will just go about our business as usual. That sounds more realistic. I am not a flower with a delicate flower heart, but if I were, I think not writing to you would hurt me more than I could ever imagine.

I think I shall stop being so overly romantic. As I should have ages and ages ago. We are friends, at best. Enemies, more realistically. What is that nice little portmanteau? _Frenemy_? That is what we are, now. Frenemys. (Frenemies? How does one spell this?)

So, here we go: your new frenemy. Doctor. 

***

Oh, my beautiful flower-hearted Doctor,

_Frenemy_ is the most awful thing I’ve heard in my far too long life. I should rip up that letter, for good measure. You are my husband and my ex-partner, and a previous friend, but never a frenemy. Nemesis, yes. Occasionally, nemesis with significant benefits. But not frenemy. Never frenemy. 

With that aside, I would like to express my absolute elation about the minor loss of your attempts at romancing me. No more badly-timed flirting! No more slightly misplaced gifts! No more kisses at inopportune times!

Hmm. I may, in fact, mourn the last one. 

My point is: seduction was never your strong suit. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic — drama, that’s your strong suit. Kissing. (I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep talking about kissing. It might be because I haven’t been kissed in such an awfully long time. Really, what are girlfriends good for if they don’t kiss you a lot?) (Ah, speaking of. I have something to announce — later, later, but this will be a short letter because of that). 

I wanted you to know that I threw away my ring. Not thrifted, not gave it away, but I went to the ocean and took a boat out (and got quite seasick, too. I dislike the water greatly) and tossed it down to the depths of the unforgiving sea. I watched it twirl and disappear, sparkling in the sunlight, as it sank down beneath the waves.

It is gone. Our marriage, too, perhaps. In a way.

Speaking of: I’m getting married. Again. Congratulations to me! I believe I will murder my fiancée soon, but still, I am once again engaged regardless. 

I won’t invite you to the wedding. Feels… what was that wonderful all purpose word you used? _Rude_. It feels endlessly rude.

But I’m getting married.

Hurrah for me.

Your recently engaged ““““frenemy””””.


	8. War

_ During this period, the monumental Gallifreyan Time War occurred, during which all correspondence was destroyed, lost, or otherwise obscured, save for the following note: _

Doctor. I’m sorry. I’ve always, I’ve always been sorry — I don’t know how to say this. You know it. I won’t —

[OBSCURED]. 

Anyway. I want you to know… it could have been different. And I will always be sorry for it.

  
Your beloved, your universe, your beautiful, your  _ everything. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello folks! this is officially the end of act i of epistolary! i'm currently organizing a large event (dwmasters on tumblr) and may not have time to outline/write act ii for a while. but i haven't forgotten epistolary! i think about it daily, ahhah


	9. when they told me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FOLKS, i'm back! i'm not actually one chapter ahead anymore — i don't know if i will be in the future — and i probably won't have a good update schedule, because i'm in college now. which on one hand, hooray, college! but i'm also super duper busy and writing takes a Lot of Time.
> 
> anyway, enjoy the time war angst! CWs for death & mention of suicidal-aligned ideation.

To you.

I wonder if it’s worth marking these to anybody anymore. I have a new — a new companion, a new lady friend. You might call her that. I wouldn’t. She’s asleep in the other room and has been for five and a half hours. She talks in her sleep.

I don’t think you would like her. But you never liked my companions, save one or two all those years ago, who I think you liked because we were caught up in the joy of it all. Back when we thought we knew each other. We didn’t, of course. Everything was ruined when we began to truly know each other.

I wonder sometimes how it all went by so quickly. There was a long period of slow and careful with each other, where we circled like boxers in the ring, and then everything was sped up as if Rassilon (Fuck Him, Fuck Him, I think nowadays, Fuck Him. I no longer pray in the mornings but I haven’t prayed in the mornings almost as long as you’ve known me. It still feels different now, the not-praying) had clicked a fast-forward button and we were tugged around by his stupid marionette strings. 

After you left (not died, I refuse to believe you’re dead. You don’t die. You never die, you just hibernate, or you run away for a little while) I tried to find your ring. The one you claimed you threw into the sea. I don’t know why. What could a ring do for me? How could a ring bring you back? 

I didn’t find it, of course, so it doesn’t matter. 

I find my memories of you to be tinted gold and pink, now that you’re gone. Now that you’ve left. In truth, you were never as good as I make you out to be these days. I was never good either. I think if you’d told me truthfully back then that I was as horrible as I thought you were, it would have been my destruction, and I thank you for keeping your mouth shut.

Maybe you did tell me. My tunnel vision was quite effective back then. I didn’t think I was young — oh, no, I thought I was old as the trees. I was young. I know that now. I know that because I’m certainly not young anymore.

They never told me how you died. They think you’re dead. 

(They thought you were dead. Past tense, Doctor, past tense).

They found me, their shoulders up to their ears, all rigid and tense like they always are. They found me and they frowned all sympathetic, and they said your name, the name that should never have been spoken aloud. You were a renegade. You’d lost all your rights to your name. But they said it aloud, your old name, and that was the first way I knew something was wrong.

Why am I telling you this? It’s been too long. I know I won’t send this letter — where would I send it to, after all? I’ll burn it, along with the others. Or fold it up and keep it under my pillow like a child’s lost teeth. Perhaps I’ll even put it in an envelope, for myself, mark your name on the front. Your new name. Your real name. 

They expected more of a reaction from me after they told me you were gone. I don’t know what they expected exactly, but not what I gave them. It’s been too long to remember how I reacted at the moment. I’m sorry, darling, I would have told you. I try daily to forget those moments, my first without you, my first knowing that you were possibly lost to the reaches of space.

I wish I could say I handled it well after they left. I had always meant to; but then again, I was meant to be first.

The kettle’s going off, but I don’t think I’ll make tea. I have this habit now of putting the kettle on just to hear it bubble, to know I can do something like that. It used to make me smile. I do smile, still. I can smile without you. I smile at her, mostly.

I thought once you were gone that I could never fall in love. I thought that you had stolen that with all the other things you’d plucked from my pockets: the watch my father gave me, my student identification card, bottlecaps and keys, teabags of Tulsi Sweet Rose. That’s her name. Isn’t that funny? I was wrong, anyway. I was wrong and Sweet, Sweet Rose came along and proved me such. 

Six hours now. I will admit I walked away twice during the writing of this thing. 

I no longer remember some of your faces and it terrifies me. I’m lucky I have so many on pictures, scraps from photo booths and sketches, and the like. Back when we thought we knew each other I drew you so many times. I filled up notebooks with your likeness. The soldiers mocked me for it, but I’m glad now I ignored them. I run my fingertips over the pencil lines in memorium. I think about burning them, sometimes, but in the end, I cannot condemn another version of you to Hell. 

Seven and a half hours. I went to go find the drawings and I ended up putting the kettle back on and I made oatmeal. I didn’t finish the oatmeal; I ate half of it and then washed out the bowl so it didn’t glue to the sides. I drew you again, from memory, but it’s missing something that I can no longer place.

After they told me, I went to go find you. I could have been killed as well for it, but I didn’t mind. I think I hoped I’d be caught, so I wouldn’t have to suffer your absence any longer. It had been a day and a half and already the loneliness was unbearable.

I went to go find you. It was a you that was familiar, although I hadn’t known this version of this face yet. You didn’t recognize me. I made you laugh. I thought it would stitch my hearts back together, but instead, it pulled out what feeble work I’d already managed. 

I’m glad I did it. I don’t regret it.

The benefit of writing letters to no one is that I can sign off whenever I like, without explanation. So here I am, signing off. Until next time.

Yours,

Doctor. 

***

I’m back.

It’s no surprise, I suppose; I always do return to you in the end. I can’t help it. I never have been able to.

The second after they told me (they don’t call them seconds, but I’d been on Earth far too long to think of them in any other way. Base ten base sixty on to the end. I think it was their fault anyway, or at least some of it was, so I couldn’t blame myself) was the most difficult. I expected they’d fooled me. I’d expected they’d tried to fool me, anyway, because you didn’t die.

You didn’t. You’d promised. You didn’t die, even after you should have died, even after you _had_ died you didn’t die, because you were mine and I was yours and we could never leave each other alone. I realize now that you were keeping me safe, all those years, keeping me so busy I couldn’t spiral again. I realize now that the thought of me alone in the universe had become anathema to you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

You didn’t die, and I told them that because it Just Wasn’t Done. Dying was for plebeians. You were better than that. Dying was for people who didn’t have a Doctor, didn’t have a ME, didn’t have someone who would waste away without you. You would have, I think, wasted away. You never would have stood a day without me. 

I’m stronger than you, in that fashion. I realize that now. 

I think about it now, albeit less frequently than I once did. Finding my Matrix entry and staying there. I’m not suicidal, and I never was: it doesn’t count as suicide if you never die. It’s something else. It’s something less difficult. 

I think about a lot of things. Mostly I think about how I hoped and prayed you’d be gone, away from me permanently, so we would never have to deal with each other again. And now you are gone, and I’m sitting alone in the TARDIS while Rose sleeps, crying over the fact I’ll never see you again.

You don’t die. I’m still halfway convinced you aren’t dead, and this is some elaborate prank to pull me apart. Oh, darling, what a cruel, cruel trick to play.

I’m all right. I promise that. I’m getting better every day, at least, and that’s all I hope for. (I lie, you know. I hope for so much more than that.) I don’t know why I’m so worried that _you’ll_ be worried. Not with you gone like this. It makes me wonder: how many times must I sit here, scribbling assurances to a dead man? How many times before I feel all right in the mornings?

I suspect longer than is comfortable for either of us.

Yours,

Doctor. 

***

To you, again.

I’ve got nothing to say except I woke up missing you. We didn’t share a bed often enough for it to make any sense, but I woke and I saw the empty spot where you could have been and I imagined you there. It didn’t matter the face. I just wanted to hold you close and find your mouth pressed against mine, but you are gone, and you are never coming back.

I think it’s fairly likely that you are gone, and it becomes clearer with each passing day. The Master, gone. The Master, lost, with the rest of the Time Lords. I once thought it our tragedy that we could never die. What did I say? “The ten thousand deaths of Time Lords”? And something about our persisting curse.

That was foolishness. It was all foolishness, but that most of all. If you had ten thousand deaths to offer, I would gladly take them, so long as you had ten thousand lives to spend alongside me as well. So long as you had millions of mornings to wrap your legs around me to warm yourself. So long as you had millions of evenings to lean your head against my shoulder and entwine our fingers together as we watched the opera. 

The one small comfort I take in your probable death is that you will never see these words, never see my vulnerability and emotional distress scrawled out on the page. You would mock me beyond measure. (I would hope you’d mock me with gentle touches, gentle kisses. It’s not like me — it’s not like this face of mine — to be so kind and soft. But these are words for just me, and you. Dead you.) 

Anyway, here I am, in bed, by myself, and you’re dead. We’re in the year -5024, in terms of the British counting system of things, and as far as I’m aware you weren’t here while you were alive. If you were, I doubt you had any interest in the empty space outside the moon of Shining Rings. 

I didn’t realize how much of me I’d relied on you to keep safe until you could no longer keep anything safe anymore. I thought it was all right to attach bits and pieces of myself to you, because you were _you,_ you were the _Master,_ and the Master doesn’t _die,_ for Gallifrey’s sake, except Gallifrey is gone and so are you and everything is shit — !!

Well.

What was I saying.

Fuck you. That’s it, or close enough. Fuck you; I don’t know who I am now, and it’s because of you, and I hate you more than I ever have. I hate you and I love you in equal measure, and it’s impossible to sort out now that there’s _grief_ mixed in, of all things. Grief is an impossible knot on its own (I know that well as anyone) and it’s worse with whatever we have together. Whatever we had together.

When they told me I broke both their noses. I don’t like to remember that, except for those times when I’m burning with rage for you, and then I relish every bit of it. I don’t know why I did it. They didn’t kill you. But it was so satisfying, to see them sputter and moan and wipe away blood and slap twelve different fines on me. Assault Of An Official Gallifreyan Time Lord. Assault Of A Celestial Intervention Agency Officer. One for staining their robes, even. You’d think eventually they’d learn to wash it with cold water, but then again, they’d never known _you._

They knew your name, though. They knew your name and they read it aloud to me. At least we were still together in the database; I don’t think I could have stayed standing if they’d read it in the daily prayers with all the fallen soldiers. We were meant to be silent. I would have screamed for you. I would have broken all the statues for you. I would have stained a hundred more robes with orange blood for you.

On Earth, after a certain point and before another certain point, they talk about five trim, tidy stages of grief. In truth, they mix in ink and wobbly Circular and snot and tears as your husband sits on his polka-dotted sheets and mourns you, mourns you, mourns you. 

I want to break all their noses again. I want to break your nose, for doing this to me.

You don’t die. I tried to tell them that, and they gave me a referral to the psychiatrist. You don’t die. You always know what to do. You would never leave me alone, and I hated you for it, but it was a fact of life like death and rebirth and High Feasts. You don’t die, but they didn’t understand that, and because of them you’ve paid the price.

Maybe you didn’t die before, and maybe I killed you. I consider that sometimes. I think I killed Ushas. I killed a few of the others, without a doubt — how many of us were there left? Not many. I wonder, sometimes, if life struck us as life strikes everybody, or if we caused our own demise with our childish hubris. Sometimes, fanciful an idea as it is, I speculate we carried some lethal curse, one that ruined us one by one. 

And now I am the only one that remains. _The last of the Time Lords._ I must have cursed us. It must all be my fault, then, and what do you think of that? You would revel in my pain, I think. It doesn’t matter. I would be happy to see your face. I would be happy to hear your laugh.

I am… I am a pathetic wreck of a being, sitting here with my knees drawn up to my chest as if to protect my hearts. A pointless endeavor, when I have already been ripped apart, from the inside out, the threat from both whatever danger lurks outside and my own traitorous emotions. 

Yes.

Well.

I woke up missing you.

Yours,

Doctor.

***

Hello.

It’s deathly cold this morning, which means either I have to fix the environmental controls or the TARDIS is mad at me. Willing to guess which one? I’m placing my bet on the TARDIS sulking again. It would, at least, explain why the door to the linen closet keeps changing color based on what time of day it is.

I don’t know if I have much to say to you again, but writing these letters is a habit. An awful habit, probably. Rose told me to get a therapist. You’re my therapist. My homicidal, capricious, very very dead therapist.

(It still feels pretend. The Master is dead, I said to myself in the mirror a few nights ago, and I laughed and laughed until I started crying. Isn’t that how it goes with us? Comedy and tragedy and comedy and tragedy, tangled together until it’s impossible to find where one ends and the other begins).

Nothing’s really happened. Nothing interesting.

An American named Jack Harkness lives with us now. He’s pretty. He’s not _you,_ he’s not _interesting,_ but he’s pretty. I don’t think you’d like him. I don’t think he’d like you, though, so that must be worth something. Transactional dislike, or something. I wouldn’t mind having both of you, to be honest, although I’m sure the TARDIS would eventually be lit on fire, and I’m rather fond of that ship.

I used to be so vague about who lived with me, who traveled with me, what I was doing. I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t think you cared. (You didn’t, of course, but now that you’re gone I wish you knew everything. If you’d known everything, you’d be all right, you’d be alive, and I’d have a million other problems but at least they’d be _you_ problems). 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I don’t have anything else to say except that. I’m sorry I’m not a very interesting conversation partner, but in all fairness, you’re worse. _Fuck_ , my love, who gave you permission to die? Who gave you permission to leave me behind? I know I didn’t. Or maybe I did, a million times over, and you finally took it at face value. So fuck, I guess, fuck this empty universe. 

I know you’re out there. I would go visit you again now. Alas, I have too much self-restraint. (Yes, me! Self-restraint! It’s a good look, I think.) (And the leather jacket. You’d like the leather jacket. Rose said I looked like a bad boy, but I didn’t act like one. Unfortunately, she may be correct). Anyway. The horrible thing about time travel is that both of us will stay echoes in the stars, always there, but never tangible. 

Fuck.

When they told me I murdered slews and slews of Daleks. I thought the smoke from their remains would twist into your face, write out a final message for me. I thought you’d never make me live without you. I thought you were bad, you were evil, you were wicked, but I never thought you were incapable of love. I always loved you. I love you still.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

When they told me I found old, abandoned Gallifreyan temples. I thought if anywhere would have remnants of ghosts, it would be there. I burned them all down, one after the other, and I poured paint over the prayers etched on the floors, and I desecrated the statues until their stomachs were gaping holes through which I thought I could see your face. I couldn’t. 

I loved you then more than ever. I understood you, and the rage burning inside your hearts, and your utter lack of respect for a thousand different holy things. I would have kissed you in front of the shattered alter and held you up as the founder of our new society. We would have been rulers to fear. We would have been gods, my dearest, but you died before we could. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

I’m going back to sleep.

Yours,

  
Doctor


End file.
